


Obsidian

by Screwyy



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Broken Bones, Derealization, Dream Smp, Gen, Guilt, Hallucinations, It’s depressing im so sorry, Panic Attacks, Post-Doomsday, Self-Harm, Suicide thoughts, Visual Hallucinations, auditory hallucinations, c!Dream, dream smp dream, dreamwastaken - Freeform, he hurts his fingernails thats super specific but that sets me off so it gets its own warning, suicide attempts (not very graphic), swearing but that should be the least of ur worries tbh, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28732581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screwyy/pseuds/Screwyy
Summary: Despite all his divine power, Dream ends up trapped in his own prison… surrounded by nothing but the darkness, his torturously immortal mind and four cold, obsidian walls.(About c!Dream from the Dream SMP. WRITTEN PRE DISC-DAY.)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 190





	Obsidian

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAG WARNINGS CAREFULLY BEFORE CONTINUING. THANK YOU!
> 
> This ended up as somewhat of a c!Dream study, and it's a little less refined than my usual works, but I'm still proud of how it turned out!

The darkness encloses him from all sides in an instant.

He can hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat, panicked in his chest. He doesn’t dare to move.

Confusion and anger and hatred course through him as he turns around sharply, only for his outstretched fingers to brush over cold, dark stone.

It’s completely dark, his eyes only just torn from bright, sea-lantern-light into the pitch black. He can’t see the walls he knows are there. 

His heart beats frantically into the darkness.

Something new begins to stir in his chest: Fear.

A poisonous terror begins to course through his body. The feeling is so horrible, so foreign that he throws himself against the wall to make it go away, and screams. He screams out the name of the cursed, traitorous person who trapped him in here.

Trapped. No, no, he’s not trapped. It can’t be that easy.

He recoils from the cold wall. No, this must be some kind of mistake. They’re going to get him out eventually. Maybe the system malfunctioned? Surely, surely he’s spun his spiderweb far enough that someone, to get something from him, will get him out.

He breathes out, knows that nobody can hear him in here.

Anger begins to coil in his veins, energy crackling and building up in his fingertips. He knows it’s pointless, but he feels if he doesn’t let his anger out anywhere, it’s going to eat him alive.

With a roar, he throws pure energy, pure power against the dark walls, sizzling into nothing. The brief flash of light suddenly makes him aware of just how small this place is.

Anger dims down into annoyance. It’s fine, though. He’ll come up with a suitable punishment for them, surely. In fact, the longer they dare to leave him in here, the worse it’s going to be, and he’s going to have plenty of time to make sure he can make their world into a living hell.

Something petty in him twists at the thought nonetheless. How did he allow such a mistake? How did he not think this was a possibility? Did he place his faith wrong so fundamentally, to end up here? And with empty pockets, too, shivering in the cold in nothing but his green clothes.

He slumps down to sit, frustrated. How? How could he have been so dumb? After all of his planning, after all the sleepless nights and all his sacrifice, to end up here, so undignified and helpless?

The silence doesn’t answer him, so he crosses his arms, waiting to hear the familiar clicking of mechanisms and hissing of redstone. It will probably only be 20 minutes. Maybe two hours, tops. No, two hours is too much. Surely less.

He sits, and waits, blindly tracing patterns on the rough stone while his insides burn with vengeance and his fingers go numb from the cold.

\---

It’s a while later, he doesn’t know how long, that he realizes he has to start plotting on how to get out himself.

Swung up in a strange state of half-denial and narcissism, he starts planning. Planning is just what he’s good at, right? Of course. He can get anywhere with a plan. There’s no way Sam’s plans for this prison outdo his own, so it’s just another riddle for him to solve, like a bored child playing with a rubik's cube.

The faux calm that spreads in his chest as he sits matches the cold outside. He plans. He thinks. He tries to remember the properties of every material, tries to construct the prison in his head mentally, twisting and turning it in his head. There’s some way. 

He knows it. There must be, he just hasn’t found it yet.

Sometimes, in between testing new ideas and trying to think of something he missed, his thoughts go quiet, and the prison he’s in stares back at him.

His eyes have gotten used to the dark over the hours. How long has he been here? A day? Two days? 

He can see the dull purple of the obsidian around him, uneven, former lava bubbles frozen mid-pop and set in place forever.

He hasn’t even tried breaking the walls yet. He knows it would be pointless. There’s a wet, cold feeling layered heavy over everything, over his entire body, making him feel weak and fragile. The effect of the elder guardian, yet another half-deity torn out of his home and imprisoned here for who knows how long.

The others are probably cheering right now. Or maybe they never noticed he left.

He pushes those thoughts aside and goes back to his colorful, imaginary little rubik's cube.

\---

The days pass.

They pass, slow and cold, dragging along like nails over his skin. The rubik's cube lies broken somewhere in his mind, abandoned as he presses his face into the cold stone.

What if he never gets out?

The thought ghosts through his mind, leaving nothing but a dull ache in its wake. He grips the uneven stone, fingers shivering and weak. 

It’s cold, but he knows no matter how long, he’ll never freeze here.

Someone is going to get him, surely. Of course they will. They have to. If they don’t, then… 

then…

He lays there, unmoving and cold. He closes his eyes. His head is empty, and he almost wishes it would disappear. Mingle with the void and fade into nothing. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so fucking terrified.

Maybe then he’d stop waking up from nightmares to awaken into the whole new nightmare that is his new life.

\---

He starts talking to himself.

_How cliché_ , he thinks. That he feels the insatiable need to say something. It starts with murmuring his ideas out loud, and just goes on from there.

Why not? It’s not like he has anything better to do. It’s not like anybody can hear him in here. He made sure Sam made sure of that. Ironic, isn’t it?

Something in him twists. Anger.

No. He’s not dying in here. He’s a deity, dammit! He’s stronger than them all put together! He’s stronger than this whole world forced into a single fucking _POINT_!

His power lashes, throwing itself against the walls. He refuses to die here. He refuses to _disappear_ here.

He forces himself to sit up, forces himself to feel the rough stone pressing into his skin to leave bruises. With a shout, he throws his energy against the cold stone to no avail. He reels back his fists to punch the walls, heaving as pain cuts into his knuckles. He reaches out and hits the immovable wall again.

It makes him feel something, dammit. Something, anything other than this creeping cold threatening to claim him, threatening to drag him into the endless void. He hits, again and again, blazes of light lighting up the cell.

His lungs burn as he stumbles back, shoulders hitting the wall behind him quickly. It’s small. It’s never going to be bigger. He’s never going to know any more than this tiny, tiny space.

His hands shake as he raises them to look at them, blood running over his hands and dripping onto the floor. He would heal. He knows he would. Nobody can die in this prison.

The blood looks black in the dark, a stark contrast against his pale skin. He lowers his hands, the trembling feeling taking over his whole body.

He’s never going to run out of air. He’s never going to starve. He’s never going to dehydrate. He’s never going to die.

He’s never going to get out.

A broken, gurgling laugh bubbles out of his throat. He goes through his hair with one hand, not caring that he’s staining the sun-gold locks with his own blood. Keep it together, Dream. Once he loses his sanity, it’s all over.

\---

He’s determined. Stubborn. Too stubborn for his own good, maybe.

He sits, forces himself to think of everything over and over again. There has to be a way. Nobody has ever created anything perfect, and that universal law couldn’t possibly have been broken now. Not here. Not with this.

He’s immortal. This place is hard to mine through, but it shouldn’t be impossible, right?

He looks around. There’s nothing here. No splinter, no rock, no piece of anything to break away at the walls at, and he has nothing. Clothes won’t do. It has to be something more… solid.

Slowly, he reaches for the mask covering his face.

With weak fingers, he takes it off. He feels naked without it. He gulps down his dignity, and smashes it against the wall.

He ignores the pain in his chest, grabbing one of the solid pieces firmly in his hand. The blood has dried and flaked off for the most part. He spent all last… night? Day? Past couple of hours? Getting himself clean again.

He starts chipping away at the stone, stubbornness steeling into an iron will.

\---

It’s not until his mask has been reduced to nothing more than dust that he stops.

He sees, halfway through, that it’s not bringing him anywhere. It’s never going to bring him anywhere. It’s never going to work.

He keeps going. Because if he stops, it’s all over. If he gives up, he loses.

So he keeps chipping away. Keeps watching the white material flake and diminish, like a river rocking pebbles into smoothness. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been at this point. His perception of time lays dying in the corner. Has it been weeks? Months? He has no idea, and the thought eats him alive each day anew.

And yet, it would never eat him whole.

When his mask is gone, finally, he slumps against the walls again how he’s done a million times now. The walls never change. He knows every crease, every bump, every formation, every fucking surface in these insufferably bleak four walls. 

He murmurs something to himself, voicing his thoughts half-heartedly. Strange how it is, it feels like talking steadies him, even if just a tiny bit.

\---

Half-asleep, he blinks himself awake. Not that it matters much. Voices call for him, far in the distance. He blinks, refusing to wake up.

The choir of voices he both recognizes and doesn’t calls his name, over and over again. Some are quiet, some are louder, clearer. They trickle steadily, and he listens to them, because what else has he to do?

Does he know they’re not real? Yeah. But it doesn’t elicit the reaction out of him that he thought it would. He feels strangely calm, soothed by the gentle echo of sounds. He tries to hear out specific voices. One of them is Tommy, he’s sure. Another is Sapnap. But there’s so many he doesn’t recognize.

He closes his eyes. He listens to them until they begin to fade, leaving him alone again.

\---

The more bleak his life gets, the more his chest aches. He’s bored, in an insufferable and indescribable way that feels like an anvil on his heart. To describe it as boredom feels laughable.

He has to do something. He has to do something if he wants to stay sane, even if just a little bit. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the ache in his chest gets worse.

He started biting his fingernails a while ago, when they started to itch after he stopped chipping his mask into dust. He glares down the walls for the millionth time.

With nothing better to do and a numb feeling in every limb, he starts to chip away at the walls with his fingernails, finding a specific spot to scratch over. He’s immortal, so they’ll regrow. So eventually, even if that’s a hundred years from now, he’ll get out, right?

...right?

\---

His fingers bleed, fingernails chipped down and hands shaking. Pain burns in every single one of his fingertips. At least it’s better than feeling nothing, though, so it’s really not half-bad.

He doesn’t have fingernails to bite on anymore, though, and it’s making him antsy.

Very, very antsy.

He closes his eyes, feels the burning pain fade into dullness. He feels numb. The world he knew feels ages away. Surreal, almost. It feels like he’s been trapped here forever, and the world outside was just a wishful fever dream that he had indulged in. It made sense too, doesn’t it? 

He made himself out to be the villain, the villain getting revenge on everyone. Maybe it was what he imagined would happen if he got out of here, taking revenge on everyone, on all the people who don’t understand his pain, who couldn’t comprehend how deeply the color of obsidian has nestled it’s way into his soul.

And then, in some kind of eternal circle, he had the prison built, and got locked in it, finding himself back here.

Maybe it’s easier that way, to think of it all as a dream. To think that none of it really happened, to make it hurt a little less.

It only makes the world a little darker, though.

\---

Is this justice?

The thought doesn’t let him go.

It sinks into his mind slowly, unfiltered with nothing present to stop it.

Is this it, is this what justice is for him?

He thinks of Tommy, bruised and dirtied, panicked, giving him everything he has. He thinks of screams raging into the sky as explosions tear through stone and flesh. He thinks of blood covering his hands. Blood that’s not his own.

This is what he deserves, isn’t it?

He laughs briefly, roughly. He deserves this. He fucking deserves this, doesn’t he. 

His chest starts to vibrate again, and he starts to laugh.

His laugh echoes off the walls and he rolls over the cruel stone floor, only getting louder by the second, gasping for air. It’s over. It’s all over and he’s going to stay here forever! Isn’t it funny, how they got everything they wanted in the end?

Isn’t it funny that the cruelest punishment he could come up with became his very own fate?

\---

He can’t do this anymore. The voices come and go, doing nothing more than calling his name. They’re a welcome distraction, actually, but he dreads the horrible, dark purple void in between them. He wishes they would just stay. But nobody would ever want to stay with him, would they?

He has to feel something. The dull ache burns in his chest, a black hole tearing him up on the inside.

He can’t fucking do this anymore. 

If he doesn’t feel something, anything new right this second, he’s just going to lose it.

Maybe he could…?

A twisted, fucked up thought surfaces in his mind. Has he ever cared about doing anything twisted? Not really.

He takes his hand, shakily bringing it up to one of the uneven bumps looking out from the obsidian. He finds the knuckle of his thumb easily, pressing it against the bump.

He may not be able to die in here, but…

Pain shoots through him.

He presses harder.

His breathing comes out in broken half-laughs and half-sobs, gut filling with unsteadiness. Anything. Anything is better than feeling nothing.

He presses until his knuckle bruises.

With another delirious laugh, broken off and breathy, he hears the bone crack.

Shaking, he stops the pressure, his broken thumb searing pain into him. Tears well at his eyes, spilling over his face and onto the stone. 

He heaves. It hurts. It fucking hurts, and he both regrets doing that with every fibre of his body and revels in the feeling of still being _alive_.

\---

He heals, because of course he does. Flesh mends itself back together, bone melts back into place over time. It takes ages, and at the same time it feels like it took no time at all.

He stares at the walls. He wishes he could die. He wishes, desperately, that just a tiny piece of him had been a fraction less cruel, and at least allowed someone imprisoned to just kill themselves.

They’re never going to let him out. They hate him. They think he’s the root of all of their problems. 

He knows, at some point, that he would start trying to die. 

The fact that the thought doesn’t really scare him feels worse than the imagery itself.

\---

He stares into nothing, eyes unfocused. His face is pressed against the harsh stone uncaringly. His mind drifts on through time, sluggishly dragging itself along, trying to ignore the pain by letting itself try to fade into the void.

He blinks.

Someone is sitting there, across from him. Someone not real, he realizes, before he even has the chance to react.

It’s George.

He sits quietly, eyes covered completely with his glasses, expression unreadable.

Dream’s voice is rough when he talks. He’d stopped talking to himself for a while, while the pain from his broken thumb had rooted him to reality.

“Hi, George.”

George doesn’t answer. He sits and stares, one leg stretched out and the other near him with his arm draped over it. He seems nonchalant as ever, and Dream drinks in his colors, his features, the textures of him that he can see.

“It’s fine that you’re not real, really. I just need somebody to talk to, and it’s nice that you’re here anyway.”

Dream studies his silhouette. With a sharp pain he suddenly realizes that George hates him as much as everybody else does.

He hasn’t gotten him out of here either, after all.

Dream’s voice begins to crack. “So you’re out there with everyone too, huh, George?” He tries to gulp down the lump in his throat. “Enjoying the sunshine? Enjoying life without me?” Dream lets out a humourless laugh. “I bet it’s a lot better, without me there. Peaceful and picture perfect. I bet you’re having a lot of fun.”

George doesn’t react to him.

Dream feels himself weaken. His voice is but a hoarse whisper. “Please don’t go.” Dream closes his eyes before frantically opening them again, making sure George is still there. “Please, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me alone again.”

George doesn’t answer.

Dream’s voice cracks for real, vision blurring with tears. “You hate me like everyone else. I took everything from you. Your crown, your status, everything, and I never thought I’d have to pay for it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. His voice grows quiet again. “Are you glad I’m here, George? Paying for what I did? Is that what you would have wanted, after all the things I did?”

He sighs shakily. “I changed. All on my own, without anybody’s help. We were so close, and then… those stupid discs, that stupid war, and then I… I lost it, didn’t I?”

He blinks, feeling hot water run down his face. “I lost you.”

\---

He tried, finally.

Just with his hands around his neck at first, pressing down onto his windpipe. He blacked out, even, but just woke up later.

If only he’d kept the mask. Maybe he could’ve been more effective with it. 

Maybe if he succeeds in dying once, he’ll be able to keep doing it, over and over again. He has to run out of lives eventually, right?

Hah.

\---

He tried with his clothes, this time, with just as much success. Which is none.

\---

His thoughts drag on, abstract and strange. 

Sometimes he laughs to himself, about something he thought of that he couldn’t even describe anymore. 

Sometimes he rocks from side to side, finding the motion surprisingly soothing. 

Sometimes he hums, and when he hums at just the right volume and in just the right tone, the voices join in to give him company. At least he still has those.

Sometimes he thinks of the world before, just a blur of vivid colors, and wonders how he ever survived in a place that changes so quickly and demands so much of him.

Sometimes people join him, silently, staring at him while he rants out himself to them.

It almost feels like life is a little better than it was who-knows-how-long ago, when he still chipped away at the walls, when he still threw his powers against them. 

Now it seems they hug him tightly, and as long as the only thing he thinks of is his tiny little world, everything is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to Kudos! 
> 
> Comments of all kinds are highly appreciated! I wonder who was the person that locked him up :)


End file.
